Velvet Lined
by Rasielle
Summary: “...the country now holds you. You are, by honor, obliged to give it everything.” A collection of three drabbles, each presenting a different angle of a noble's life: love, death, and corruption.
1. coronation

**Forenote: **Three drabbles, all with glimpses of a noble's life - but through different angles. All but one of the characters are anonymous, by the way, for the sake of a literary art.

- - - - -

**_coronation _**

A clock was ticking somewhere, ticking loudly and oddly enough, slowly – as though time was slowing down, and then becoming normally paced again, and then becoming leisurely once more. It was an odd thing; but neither of the men took notice.

A hasty swish of a purple, velvet-lined cloak. A large mustache, grey and faded with age. 'You will go through with this as planned. You are now King; much is expected of you. Obedience is one.'

'But to marry one who is not my beloved?' A younger youth, with a finely boned face and dark eyes that blazed with fool's passion. 'The country does not demand that.'

'It does, my son.'

'It cannot. It cannot expect it.'

The old, once-King laid a wrinkled hand upon his son's. 'She is perfect for you. She will do anything for your good and that of the kingdom, and she is beautiful. The country will love her.'

'My personal life is none of their affair. My marriage would be none of their affair.'

And wisdom passed into the once-King's eyes, wisdom that was sad and begging the son to concede to a quiet, painless resignation. 'As a monarch, everything is their affair. At your crowning, you lost your life, you know – the country now holds you. You are, by honor, obliged to give it everything.'

'Not this, not this.' But the son could only look into the once-King's eyes and see not his sovereign but his father, a once-lad with a once-wild spirit that was, it turned out, either gone or long broken.

- - - - -

He had his head in his hands, his royal ring-wearing hands, as he brooded - silent and unmoving and unlikely to awaken from his stupor in a short while.

On the couch sat a young woman – or a girl, rather; she was not even in her twenties – who was very beautiful and very gentle looking. One pale, slender arm was stretched out in a pathetic manner, as though to stroke the standing King's hand, but she could not reach him and so settled for keeping her hand forever outstretched.

More minutes passed. Finally, the girl dropped her hand. Folded it neatly with the other one – small and white – onto her lap.

'She was beautiful – was she not?'

Her King, her dear husband-to-be, pounded his fist against the wall. Flaming eyes, ardent passion that could only express itself in terrible rage. 'She was perfect – you could never understand – she was clever, she was lovely, she was _everything to me_ – how you could speak to me as such – '

But the pretty young lady on the couch bowed her head in a manner that made it hard for him to continue. Silver-white curls slipping down the sides of her face. Lovely angel-blue eyes that dared not meet his own. 'My Lord. I beg your pardon. I spoke out of turn. Please, forgive me.'

'_Forgive_ you? Milady, this is not a predicament of your own devising. You are a pawn in this game just as well as I – '

'My sire, I can scarcely believe I had you to raise your voice. Oh, how I have sinned. Do not explain things to me, milord – only forgive me. Surely you can!'

A silence. Deathly. Puzzled. _She is perfect for you. She will do anything for your good and that of the kingdom, and she is beautiful. The country will love her._

Perfect blue eyes. Perfect golden hair. Snowy skin that stole the light in the room. She was an angel. She was perfect. _The country will love her._

And the look in her eyes – oh, it was not possible. No woman could be so submissive – no woman could be so dependent on her man – no woman could be so…

_Perfect for you._ For the kingdom. Because the politics of the land and the politics of the heart were two separate games, games that were not meant to mix.

Well, she had long given herself to her country. She waited only for him to surrender his.

More silence. And then – 'Yes, dearheart. I… forgive you. For your sake alone, I shan't raise my voice again.'

And she stood, crossed the length of the floor, and laid her small hand atop his. Together they stood by the chamber casement, not in love but nonetheless completely devoted to one another – if only for their country.

Though only affianced, in the silence – in a way that only sovereigns themselves could understand – the two became King and Queen.

_fin._


	2. my lady mourning

**_my lady mourning _**

Drab black, as featureless as the intonations of the priest, as drab as the faces of the nobles that surrounded the coffin. Drab as the air and as drab as the grey sky that loomed so bleakly atop their heads, dreary as the silence that could be felt whenever he would pause.

And then he'd continue in his monotone. She tightened her fist. Tautening face, eyes that were shut tightly to fight the headache. _Oh, how it hurt. _

She opened them. Opened her fist. Let breathe the white petals in her hand, sprinkled them very lightly on the coffin surface. There. Now her son – her dear, dear, beloved son – would take them. They would sit atop his coffin, and he would keep them.

They were bright and mocking – white against black. A wedding sash in a crowd of black mourning robes. Shame. Anger. A feeling of loathing that she couldn't direct.

She swept her hand across the coffin surface. The petals fell to the ground.

' – a man of integrity, a Prince who was cherished and respected by his land and his people – '

_he was so young _

' – had shouldered the burdens and terrors of his noble nation even before he was called to do so – '

_too innocent, much too sane _

' – was a King well before his time, but has left us to become a leading figure in a more heavenly, more perfect kingdom – '

_oh, how to let go? _

And where would she be, she wondered. It was an irrepressible thought, induced by the unremitting selfishness that dwelt in the sinister bowels of human nature. _What was to become of her? Her, middle-aged and in this society good for nothing. Her, a widow and now a once-mother. Her, once connected to both Prince and King, but now isolated and left to die next. _

_You have manors,_ rationality whispered to her, whispered as she sat by the coffin, silent and cold. _You have inherited. You can live in peace, alone but for the memories that _will_ follow you._

It would be a drab life. Not at all like the one she had enjoyed before.

With a final cry of agony, she threw herself upon the coffin surface and felt an intense pain impress itself upon her head. Limp arms, black skirts that spread around her, a creeping blackness that touched the corners of her vision. Pooling blood, all around her head, like a very crimson halo.

The drab crowd watched as she lay still on the ground, and together they knelt in mourning. They are not surprised, for she never was a strong woman. Nobles never were.

_fin._


	3. judas

**_judas _**

****

The storm shows no mercy, whips and screeches and flings water from its upper depths down at the earth, telling of the Deity's wrath; _relent, sinners, stop the evil_. But none listen to it, and the castle stands alone as the night rises with its rainsweep.

Splashing water that try to suck in his boots, cold water and somehow burning, burning to make the men feel shame. A hooded figure, pausing at the drawbridge and crossing it, meeting with the guard who did not let him in.

Clanking mail; guard's mail. 'Who be ye, fellow? What face be underneath yer hood?'

The figure extends a hand. Ruby red flashes in the midst of the rain, and it appears as though the red light catches flame.

'Sir Germont, of the First King's Order; seventh Knighted.'

The guard's eyes are shrewd, as though the name brought resentment. Suspicion almost leaks into his voice. 'Ah, sir. I'll have the doors opened for ye, sir.'

He calls to the lad, who undoes the door locks, which sweep inwards to let in the soaking knight, who stands and shivers once inside.

The chancellor is already waiting for him. 'Sir Germont! Good of you to plow here, in the rain! Come in, in where it is warm and where we have a fire lit for you. Oh, no. Not the parlour. Our private quarters, certainly, Germont; The King would need not know you were here.'

He is a tall man, thin but strutting as though he were burly. He leads you into the private quarters up three flights of the marvelously marble staircase, taking care to glare away a chambermaid on the way. Opens the door; lets you in, like a gentleman.

There is a fire; it dances like it holds a tambourine of gold, as though it is a gypsy-witch, and it teases him as it winks. The chancellor sits first, the Knight after. Silence hangs in the air for a moment, and you can feel the merging emotions as though they were the scents of foods: worry, doubt, fear, impatience, and a tad of expectation.

'So. Knight Germont. It is good of you to come, good of you, very good of you. The weather was harsh; we almost thought not to expect you! Nonsense, do you think? We should've had more faith, I know; but you cannot blame us. Great men can cower before nature, even.'

He speaks too much, and the Knight shifts uncomfortably. He does not respond because it does not put an end to the talk.

'And you are among the great men, to come to our little meeting in the rain. Just for our business! Good sir, such fortitude. Without a carriage! You have my admiration.'

_Then your admiration is not worth much, you spoiled boar_. But the Knight does not voice his thoughts; he is here for business and business alone, and he will not speak until he can see the promised gold.

'Ah, but we dawdle. We are private, very private, in this room. No maids to come in, no aristocrat thinking to host their little tryst in this place. I've made sure of this. I just thought to let you know. To reduce worry, my friend.'

But thankfully, before the Knight can begin to grimace, the chancellor pulls from the pocket of his doublet a hefty-looking sack: it is gray and bulky, full and full of coins.

The Knight leans in.

'50 gold pieces. As was promised. If there is trouble, we shall throw in 20 more.'

So. The business has begun, finally. 'I am not the Fifth Knighted, Lord Chancellor. You know he is the King's most trusted. I cannot tell you as much as he, and you know he shan't shift.'

The chancellor nods sanctimoniously, as though he were that very Knight. 'He is no turncoat.'

There is stiffening, and there is tension.

'Ah. Forgive that. An unnecessary little comment, not at all meant to be taken to offence. Please, forgive that. I shrug it off even now; see? So. 50 pieces. Do you require more?'

'No.'

'We are private here; I don't suppose you'd want to try this any other day?'

'No, sir. It'd be best to have this over quick.'

'Then you will tell us _all_ we need to know? Every last state secret? Every allusion made at the meetings of the King and his Knighted? Every single detail?'

'You put it so crassly.'

The chancellor – the nobleman, the gentleman, the rich and wealthy benefactor of a most filthy conspiracy – sits back and is for a fleeting moment honest. The talkative lunatic is gone, now. 'This is crass work; crassly is the only way to put it. How can we be positive you do not withhold information?'

The Knight smiles for the first time in weeks. He does not smile much anymore, unless it is for something that truly sets his heart alight.

'Why, 10 more pieces and you have yourself a Judas.'

It is gold, in this case.

_fin._

_- - - - -_

**Afterthoughts:** This fic is not sequential, people. The lady in Oneshot 2 is NOT the lady in Oneshot 1. This is merely a collection of 3 oneshots, 3 different stories with different themes. And they are all anonymous – with the exception of Germont. Think of it as my other piece 'Classic', yes?

I'd also like to know what chapter was your favorite, by the way. Just out of curiosity.

So read and review. And don't mind my present crankiness; 'tis no fault of yours. :virtual hugs for everyone:


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